Felicia moved before Garrett did.

She saw the recognition land on him, saw her decade of careful work start to buckle, and in a flash of pure panic she reached out toward Clara’s shoulder to pull my daughter back, to physically remove the small clear voice that had started the collapse.

I caught her wrist in the air before she could touch my child.

I did not think about it; a decade in the Army puts certain things below thought, and my hand closed around her wrist fast and firm and stopped it cold, inches from Clara’s shoulder.

“Do not,” I said, quiet, even, every word landing separately in the silence, “ever put your hands on my daughter.” I did not shout.